


a cure i know (that soothes the soul)

by catbrains



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Little/Caregiver Classifications, Angst, Caregiver Bruce Wayne, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Little Barry Allen, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, and then he Gets Attached, bruce ends up taking care of barry temporarily while hal is off-planet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2020-10-29 08:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20793893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbrains/pseuds/catbrains
Summary: Bruce Wayne is a Caregiver whose instincts have always left a bad taste in his mouth.  Barry Allen is a Little who has been keeping it a secret for as long as he's known.  Neither of these details matter - not really.  Until Barry reaches a breaking point and, in the absence of his usual rock Hal, goes tumbling down into headspace with no hope of fighting his way out of it this time.And Bruce, as much as he hates it, just can't turn away.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i could preface this by calling it self-indulgent, but i'd just sound like a broken record  
anyway, "littles are known" universes are fun, and - as much as i'm adoring writing 'a little bit' (my marvel fic of the same premise), i figured something a bit more light-hearted and less plot/universe-intensive *cough*withsomeshorterchapters*cough* might do me some good
> 
> also, little barry allen? the purest. the light of my life.
> 
> please enjoy!

When Barry wakes up, his head feels distinctly _ fuzzy_.

Nothing is really different. He’s in bed, stripped down to his underwear from last night with his dirty clothes added to the mess scattered around the room. It’s morning, maybe - not very early, but he’s sleepy. Really, really sleepy, and the bed feels really, really comfy, and he thinks that he wants to just stay here forever. He yawns, nuzzles his cheek against his pillow, and pulls his blanket tighter around himself as he curls up in the foetal position.

His thumb is halfway to his mouth when his eyes snap open and his whole body goes rigid.

A part of his brain startles and then begins wailing like a baby, upset at having something it wanted dangled right in front of it only to have it suddenly pulled away. Ridiculously, he feels tears gathering in his eyes, feels a whine building in his throat - feels himself desperately wishing that there was someone around to see him cry, hear him whine, and react by scooping him up in their arms to rock and coo at.

He blinks the tears away in a nanosecond, then takes the rest of the feelings swirling around and does his best to envision himself scrunching them up into something tiny, a tight little ball, and then throwing that into his brain’s garbage disposal.

Nope, don’t need that, not today. 

Not _ ever_, if he really had a choice in the matter, but it’s not something he can just make go away completely.

He’s considered really trying, a few times. Wondered if he could make some sort of treatment, some sort of chemical or drug, some sort of…Speed Force trick, that would wipe it out of his mind, even though he knows it’s ridiculous. He’d probably just end up somehow fucking up the entire world in his selfish quest to make things better - because he’s pretty good at that.

It’s not something he’d like to dabble in again, though. So, he’s been making simple mental suppression work - won’t even let himself slip on occasion like he used to, when he would spiral too deep into a meltdown and have no choice but to just let himself curl up and wail for hours like he had a Caregiver who would hear and take care of him.

Even if the experience had always been cathartic, it quickly began getting in the way. The more he let himself dip into his headspace, even just in those brief meltdowns to try and get it out of his system, he’d find himself feeling the pull of it more frequently and more _ firmly _in day-to-day life. Someone would yell at him for not finishing work on time and his eyes would start burning. He’d be stood facing a foe down and find himself wanting to recoil in fear and scream for someone else to protect him, even in his full Flash suit - and that, truly, was the breaking point.

If his headspace would get in the way of him helping people, saving people, then it had to go. That’s it. No real loss on Barry’s part - it’s not like he’s ever had a Caregiver, or any real indulgence in his headspace, or ever even told anybody at all. He doesn’t even have a pacifier or a blanket or a stuffie, not even ones carried over from childhood - most of them, after all, had been tainted by his grief and pain after his mother’s death.

More times than he cares to count, he’s found himself stopping in front of Little supply stores after something in the window caught his eye, but he’s never given in to the craving. 

What an embarrassment it would be, after all, if someone he knew - a coworker at the police station, or a fellow League member somehow - saw him or found out about his Classification, which he’s done his best to hide for as long as he’s known about it. He can’t even imagine how ashamed he’d feel, though he frequently tortured himself by imagining different people’s reactions. Lips curling in disgust, eyes glaring at him, smiles taunting him with mock pity to match how pathetic he is.

Imagining it again is more than enough to get him out of bed and dressing for work, telling himself over and over again that he is a grown ass man, and going to work and acting like one is a very simple task. Other people manage it, every single day, and his own pulling reluctance is something to be fought through, something to be brushed over as he lets his thoughts race with the often overwhelming comprehension of the Speed Force, letting himself rush through analyses of his surroundings and outcome predictions and knowing what’s going to happen - who’s going to step where, what’s going to fall over, who’s going to slam their breaks - an agonising amount of time before it happens.

Three times during his commute he gets entirely lost trying to tell his thoughts from reality, and ends up taking wrong turns or getting himself caught up in crowds of pushing strangers all bustling to get to their own workplaces. He arrives to the police station late, head scrambled and thumping and hands shaking just a little, and is greeted with a sea of frustration and disappointment, and then a pile of work that has to be done now — now, _ now,_ Allen!

But it’s fine. This is what he wanted. He loves his job and he loves doing this and he wants to solve these cases and help these people and make his superiors proud and then follow up on that mission for the League later, so he dives into his work headfirst and forces his mind back to _ focus _every time it drifts even slightly, telling himself - as always - that work is what he needs. 

☀︎

Batman is notified near immediately of the mission gone wrong, but it takes him almost two hours to get away from the meetings and courtesy and bureaucracy of his day job.

Despite that, when he arrives on the Watchtower, there is apparently little more information to be offered. Flash had gotten caught up in something that had apparently been building for a while. There had been a fight, thankfully with almost no civilian casualties despite taking place within the bustling environment of Central, but there had been one casualty - the Flash himself. He’d just frozen, apparently. Been battered, let the bad guy get away, and then he’d ran off. No mission report - no frantic, deep-set guilt for his failure, no babbled apologies. 

It’s an issue that Jordan would’ve almost definitely been set on the tail of, if only he were present. He’s the specialist on Barry-related affairs, as Barry is with Jordan-related affairs. As it is, though, the Green Lantern is off-planet, somewhere too far away to contact in the throes of a deeply important mission, and somehow Bruce is the next-best choice. Not to find the villain, no - somebody else had been set on that trail - but to find _ Barry_.

Well. He hadn’t exactly been _ told _that he has to find Barry and find out what had happened, but he is entirely unwilling to let this go unchecked. Barry is injured, for one thing - but this sequence of events is also entirely uncharacteristic. Bruce wants to know what went wrong, more importantly wants to know that Barry is alright — and that is an instinct he must chalk up to his Caregiver instincts, despite the bitter taste they always, always leave in his mouth.

There is no real reason for his instincts to come out around Barry. Bruce has never thought to ask about his Classification, has truly never really cared when it seems to have so little effect on Barry as a person and as a Leaguer, but he has always assumed that the other man is a Caregiver-leaning Neutral. He seems to be altogether not quite _ together _enough to be a real Caregiver, after all, but he cares for others with an urge as natural as breathing. 

It’s something Bruce admires, though Barry’s tendency to care for _ everyone _before himself is a point of concern.

Really, right now, it’s the most obvious theory. Barry was tired, pushed himself into a fight that he couldn’t handle, and is now attempting to hide away rather than face his recklessness and ensuing guilt, and it’s that line of greatest-detective thinking that has Bruce standing at the front door of Barry’s apartment only an hour later, dressed in as casual clothes as he owns in an attempt to avoid attracting the attention of all of Central City. He still sticks out like a sore thumb, of course, particularly with the usual dark aura of Gotham surrounding him, as he waits impatiently in the cramped hallway of the moderately run-down, certainly low-rent building Barry resides in, but he doesn’t mind.

Not until he knocks for the third time and waits a further three minutes with no answer, nor any sign of life from inside. Barry likes to be _ late _, yes, but it taking more than sixty seconds for him to do something as simple as answer the door is almost absurd. Even if the man was putting conscious effort into taking his time, he would hardly be able to bear more than a minute or two, as Bruce knows from every patience or waiting-heavy mission they’ve been paired for.

For a moment, Bruce entertains the thought that Barry simply isn’t here. It’s entirely possible, of course - maybe Barry sought out a friend, or made some effort into seeking out Hal - but Bruce didn’t rush between Gotham and the Watchtower and Central to give up on this immediately.

As a last resort, a moment before he plans to turn and walk away and work out where the second most likely place Barry would be is, he turns the handle on the door and is immediately surprised when it opens.

Of course, it doesn’t take the world’s greatest detective to work out that someone's door being unlocked while they aren’t home rarely means something good. Preparing for a fight, Bruce keeps his back to a wall and enters, shutting the door silently behind him and listening intently. The apartment is almost entirely silent, but there’s the distinct sound of _ something _coming from the furthest room, what Bruce can only guess is a bedroom - probably the sole bedroom, if the size of the apartment is any indication. He’s still thinking burglar, or kidnapper, or someone otherwise out to hurt Barry, but the closer he gets, the more he begins to doubt that theory.

The apartment, as he steadily moves through it, is a mess - but not a mess that indicates a burglary or ransacking. There’s clothes everywhere, seemingly stripped off wherever Barry stood and then left there over the course of more days than Bruce cares to attempt to guess. The small kitchen is bare of necessities but filled with the wrappers and remains of the cheapest kinds of junk food, as well as a pile of dirty dishes that stretches high above the rim of the sink and a pile of mail on the small table, most of it seemingly unopened. The living room is filled with files and case work spread over the coffee table, stretching partially onto the battered couch which has the distinct indent in the clutter which tells of someone sleeping on it frequently. 

It’s the apartment of a man with no hold on himself, but it reminds Bruce vividly of something that he’s seen before, something that he _ knows _about.

And his suspicions are confirmed when he finally dares to push open that final door, the only closed door in the entire apartment, and he is met with the sight of Barry Allen collapsed on the floor amongst more clutter, still dressed in his Flash suit, shaking and sobbing into his knees like a child.

Like a _ Little_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Barry is a Little. And Bruce will be damned if he's going to just walk away from someone who needs him - needs anyone - this badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i promised myself i would leave this fic a bit longer to settle before i updated, but...well. having just that first chapter up was driving me crazy, so, hey, more content! and a plot, just barely peeking over the horizon.
> 
> thank you to everyone who is reading already, particularly those of you who left encouraging comments on the first chapter - you're all lovely! <3
> 
> please enjoy!

It’s one of those strange realisations that somehow simultaneously comes as a complete shock and also makes perfect sense.

Bruce has never seen Barry in or anywhere near anything resembling headspace, has always seen him showing far more Caregiver habits and mannerisms, but...it makes _ sense_. Barry’s a Little.

Barry, who forgets to take care of himself despite needing a much more complicated regime of eating and sleeping and everything else than any normal person. Barry, who switches unpredictably between long stretches of silence and babbling incessantly about anything and everything, who gets attached to people and things in as long as it takes him to get a good look at them, who giggles brightly and fidgets constantly and chews absentmindedly on whatever he can get his hands on and always, always lights up like the sun whenever Bruce says anything that could even vaguely count as praise or kindness to him.

And suddenly Bruce finds his damn instincts reminding him of every - much more common - time he _ hasn’t _been kind. Every time he’s snapped, or laid out each one of Barry’s failures or shortcomings after a mission gone wrong, or every time he’s met Barry’s brightness with utter coldness.

He allows himself to wonder, just for a moment, if some of those instances had been Barry’s instincts reaching out to somebody he recognised as a Caregiver, desperately reaching out for _ someone _. 

Barry doesn’t have a Caregiver, surely - especially not if he avoids headspace and lives like he does and keeps his Classification a secret like he _ apparently _ does, because Bruce hadn’t known and Bruce likes to think he knows everything - but that’s a detail that slips mostly to the back of Bruce’s mind as he quickly makes his way over to crouch in front of the sobbing boy.

“Flash,” he says, just out of habit, but quickly corrects himself, wary of what reminding Barry of their identities, of their positions, might do while he’s in this state, distressed and seemingly not quite regressed and still dressed in his goddamn suit. “Barry. Hey. Are you alright?”

Clearly not. Whatever injuries he’d acquired in the mission gone wrong are already all but healed, remaining only in a few smears of dried blood and the yellow-green hue of bruises in their last day that are scattered across what parts of his body Bruce can see, but the tears are a clear indication that Barry isn’t _ alright_. He’s crying like something’s broken, like something awful just happened, but as soon as he lays eyes on Bruce, he dives into the man’s arms without hesitation.

It’s worrying. If he’s in headspace, or even just close, Barry shouldn’t just trust the closest person. Surely he should recognise that he and Bruce have a particular distance in their relationship, that they’re really nothing but coworkers, but instead he’s hiccuping in a way that makes Bruce’s heart clench as he presses himself so close it almost aches, mumbling super-speed nonsense and then breaking down into loud, gasping sobs again.

“Hey, shh, sh. Hush. Calm down. Come on,” Bruce murmurs, soon giving in and wrapping his arms around Barry in kind when the young man shows no signs of letting go. His breathing is growing shallower and shorter and he’s shaking more and more with each passing moment, as if being held like this is overwhelming him - or perhaps just loosening the already tentative hold he still has on himself. It’s making Bruce’s instincts go haywire, seeing a Little so upset and yet clearly still fighting headspace in some manner, and he’s not quite in control of himself when he finally pulls Barry into his lap and cradles him, rocks him slowly back and forth while murmuring what he hopes sounds soothing. Barry burrows against his neck, cheeks wet and hot, but it takes only a few moments of coddling before he begins to calm down, begins to regain his breathing with each shuddering inhale. 

“Sorry,” he gasps, as soon as he can, trying to speak like he normally does but soon dissolving into the distinct babble of a toddler. “‘m…’m so’y. So’y. Ca—can’t…”

“Shh, Barry. It’s alright. You’re alright.”

It takes a further fifteen minutes for Barry to calm down properly. Bruce holds him through all of it, pets his messy hair after pulling his cowl down and rubs his back and looks around the room for any sort of comfort item, any stuffed animal or blanket or pacifier, but his search comes up with nothing. There’s really nothing but mess in the room, just dirty clothes and empty water bottles and food wrappers and books anywhere and everywhere - absolutely nothing to indicate that a Little lives here. 

That’s concerning.

“Barry,” Bruce says softly, and waits until he gets a hoarse little hum in response. “Do you have anything I could get for you? Do you have a stuffed animal or a pacifier that would make you feel better?”

A timid head shake in response, seemingly entirely honest.

_ That’s _concerning. Barry doesn’t have anything? Not even something hidden away?

“Okay,” Bruce says, effectively masking his thoughts, then tries to think. “What do you usually do when you feel like this? How do you spend your time when you’re feeling Little, or when you’re upset?”

There is a stretch of silence, during which Barry seems to think very hard. Finally, he comes up with something. “Work,” he croaks out. “So...so can’t— So I can’t be sad or Little a’ymore.”

Really, Bruce should have expected such an answer. The state of the apartment should indicate that. It’s the mess of a Little with no guidance or stability, no real regard for themselves, and the reminders of _ work _everywhere must be an effort - whether deliberate or subconscious - to help Barry suppress his needs.

“Alright.” Bruce knows his tone is stiff, not even quite neutral now like it had been a moment ago, but he certainly can’t push it in the direction of sweetness. The cooing of a Caregiver doesn’t come naturally to him, never has, not in any situation, but it’s made worse now by looking down at Barry Allen, a man he’d never imagined could be in this state, flushed with tears and three quarters of the way into headspace. “You...know that isn’t good, don’t you?”

Attempting to soften his words, he strokes a hand through Barry’s soft, messy hair. It isn’t dirty, thanks to his cowl protecting it from any dust or mud or whatever else would’ve ruined it during the fight, but Bruce can feel the sweat in it, the slight oiliness that tells that Barry probably hasn’t showered in a couple of days.

His concern increasing, and spurred on by the fact that his last question didn’t get any sort of response, Bruce presses further. “Have you been having trouble taking care of yourself?”

This question, at least, earns him a deeply guilty expression as Barry sinks into himself, and for a moment Bruce wonders how he could’ve never realised that the young man is a Little, when he can look so..._ little_.

“Hal,” Barry mumbles finally, as if that explains everything. Bruce strokes his hair again, trying to encourage him.

“You’re missing him?”

Another pause, before Barry gives a very shy nod. “Hal helps,” he whispers, staring down at his lap - at his suit. “An’...an’ us’ally ‘m’o—I’m okay. Even—even when he’s busy an’...an’ far away. But...but not this time. ‘M...I’m _ sorry_.”

This time, at least, Bruce is somewhat prepared as Barry dissolves into tears, much the way a tired, upset toddler would upon reminding themselves of their previous distress. Bruce holds Barry against his chest as he sobs, strokes his back and feels the rough texture of his suit. It can’t be comfortable, and surely it’s part of the reason that Barry is still clinging onto the edge of his normal headspace, along with the messy, less than comfortable environment.

Bruce knows, truly, that he has no right. He knows that this is not his responsibility, that it may well be Hal’s if Barry’s words mean precisely what they could be taken as, but Hal isn’t here and Bruce knows he’ll never get Barry to sink into headspace if they stay here, and that means the situation will only get worse. Barry will end up getting hurt again, and next time there may not be quite so little damage.

“Alright,” he says, and pats Barry’s back in a stiff, somewhat stern gesture to prompt Barry to sit up again, still sniffling and hiccuping. “How about we get you dressed, and then you can come home with me?”

Bruce can see it as part of Barry - surely the part still outside of headspace - is shocked or confused by the offer. An invitation to the manor, specifically as it’s referred to as _ home_, certainly isn’t an easy ticket. Any confusion, however, seems to be overridden by a deep-set desperation to be taken out of the current space and taken care of.

As soon as Barry gives a shy nod, Bruce rises easily with the boy still in his arms, has to stifle a quirk of his lips as Barry lets out a hoarse noise of surprise, and deposits the blond on the unmade, clothes-covered bed.

“Do you have anything comfortable you can wear?” he asks, though starts searching through the drawers without being prompted, aware that Barry may well be unable to give a detailed response to a question like that right now. 

True to form, no response comes at all. Unperturbed, Bruce searches through all of the drawers and then the wardrobe and finds nothing clean, nothing hung up or folded at all, and thus then lowers his standards to consider the clothes on the floor. It takes a while, during which he’s surprised Barry doesn’t get restless, but he finally gathers together a t-shirt and a pair of joggers, both of which are crumpled but altogether not disgusting. He is entirely unwilling to let Barry re-wear dirty underwear, so he’ll have to go without until Bruce can get him into a diaper or pull-up, but he’s satisfied that this is an ultimately acceptable outfit to get Barry to Gotham in.

He turns around with the clothes in his hands, and is met with the sight of Barry still sat exactly where he was left on the bed, seemingly half-asleep, gnawing and drooling on the fingers of his gloves.

“That isn’t good for your teeth,” Bruce admonishes gently, stepping closer to pull Barry’s hand away from his mouth and earning himself a whine in response. It’s young-sounding, perhaps more young-sounding than anything so far, and it makes Bruce realise that what Barry probably really wants is a pacifier or a bottle.

“M’so’y,” Barry mumbles, sounding guilty and very, very sleepy, and Bruce lets out a gentle breath. 

“Come here.”

Barry obeys unhesitatingly, clumsily shuffling close enough that Bruce can lift him easily beneath the arms and pull him to the edge of the bed. He makes quick work of getting Barry’s suit and boots off, helping the boy wriggle out of everything and reveal even more bruises covering his body - these ones darker, still halfway healed but certainly more severe than the others. Bruce lets out a sympathetic hum as he lets his fingers brush over a couple, gauging how Barry winces and reminding himself that they’ll heal entirely within the next hour at most. It’s still just naturally upsetting to see a Little hurt - Barry certainly looks beaten and battered, and Bruce finds himself, just for a moment, thinking about his children, about each young Robin.

He stops himself before the thoughts can manifest into anything that hurts too keenly, and instead rolls the T-shirt up and holds it out to help Barry wriggle into it. His hair bounces when he manages to get his head through the neck, and Bruce can’t help but let his lips quirk just slightly at the sweet smile Barry gives him, even with tear tracks on his face and the clear presence of bags beneath his eyes.

“Good,” Bruce praises softly, then holds out the waistband of the joggers so that Barry can get into those next. Barry, to his credit, does his best, but it quickly becomes clear that he doesn’t have the coordination nor the strength to do it quite so independently. He looks distinctly embarrassed as his arms shake with the effort of supporting himself, his legs not obeying him at all, and he drifts far enough back towards his regular headspace that he abandons the support of one arm in favour of ashamedly covering his bare privates.

“So—sorry,” he mumbles, and he looks for a moment like he’s going to try and back away. Try and get himself out of this situation, make an excuse about sleep deprivation or maybe a hit to the head as if Bruce could have seen anything that’s taken place since he entered the apartment and not _ know_, but Bruce - in perhaps his boldest display of his Caregiver self yet - merely lifts Barry beneath the arms again and lays him easily back on the bed. Barry’s cheeks flush bright, and a protest shapes his lips, but the words die visibly on his tongue as Bruce lifts his legs and pulls the joggers onto him like he’s dressing a baby. He’s mindful of what it might earn him - even if Barry is pushed fully back towards headspace, treating an older Little like this would easily result in a tantrum.

Bruce is mostly unsurprised, however, when the babying makes Barry settle immediately, his muscles relaxing and his eyelids suddenly lowering as if he’s just remembered that he almost fell asleep just a few moments ago. 

Bruce lets out a soft breath and pets his hair, watching as Barry fights for the strength to bring his hand up to his mouth again, weakly suckling and gnawing on his knuckles, and he wonders how Hal could possibly leave this - leave _ Barry _ in this state for no one to care for him in Hal’s stead.

But that isn’t something to focus on right this second. Whatever Hal’s reasoning, however he explains his shortcomings upon his return, Bruce has decided that this is his responsibility now - _ for _ now - and he will watch over Barry until Hal returns to Earth.

He knows he can’t be a Daddy. Probably couldn’t even be an Uncle, not to a Little who really needs him, needs the gentleness and affection that he’s so terrible at giving. 

But, maybe, he can just be a babysitter for a while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce gets Barry back to the Manor, and manages to get him bathed and dressed even as the complicated nature of the whole situation begins to truly set in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a little while to get out! i'm writing this one chapter ahead, and i won't post a chapter until i've got the next one finished, so - particularly when i'm writing lots of other stuff - it's easy to get tangled, but it's also a safety net if i do happen to get really caught up
> 
> anyway! once again, i'd like to give a big thank you to everyone who's reading and leaving comments on this fic, you're all so sweet and i'm so, so glad you're enjoying it!  
i'd also like to take this opportunity to remind you that i don't really have A Plot with this fic, so if there's any specific things you wanna see, from characters to situations to specific subject matter, please feel free to mention them! don't be shy!! 
> 
> but for now, please enjoy!

For all his detective skills, it takes Bruce a grand total of fifteen minutes to find Barry’s phone and apartment keys amongst the mess, seeing as they’d apparently been dropped or thrown when Barry arrived home. Thankfully, Barry sleeps through all of the waiting, curled up on his bed with the blanket tucked carefully around him, and he stays asleep even when Bruce lifts him - still swaddled - onto his hip to carry him down to the car outside. 

It’s a small blessing that there’s not many people around to stare at them. One woman coos vaguely from across the street, surely assuming that Bruce is a Daddy toting his sleepy little boy off to somewhere, and - while it’s not exactly inaccurate - the assumption, the attention, is still unfamiliar. It reminds Bruce vaguely of when he’d first brought Dick into his care, though Dick certainly hadn’t spent much time in his arms - especially not out and about. He was just quickly trained into a social butterfly, trained in the art of drifting around galas and parties to smile and chat and bathe in attention.

Barry, meanwhile, Bruce can’t wait to get somewhere private, before the sunglasses he’d hastily put on and Barry’s face hidden against his shoulder become inadequate disguises. Thankfully, the few other people milling about, smoking on their balconies or walking their excitable mutts, pay little mind to them. Bruce gets Barry buckled into the backseat, swallowing his concerns about how he doesn’t have a car seat and Barry seems much too little not to need one, and then he climbs behind the wheel to get back to Gotham as quickly - and safely - as possible.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that he succeeds. Barry wakes up only once during the journey, his eyes fluttering open while they’re stuck in traffic, and he soon starts whimpering and fidgeting. He almost wriggles straight out of the seat, and Bruce swears he’s buying a car seat as soon as they get home, but thankfully some low, even murmuring from him, along with Barry sucking his thumb, manages to soothe the boy back into the pull of sleep.

Bruce takes advantage of the quiet to get into contact with Alfred, and - when the car finally pulls up in front of the manor - the butler is waiting, back perfectly straight, beside the open front door. He watches patiently as Bruce rounds the car to carefully lift Barry out, and offers a brief bow of his head and a greeting as the two ascend the steps.

He’s exactly as proper as he always is, but Bruce can tell that he is - on some level - curious. Perhaps he’ll explain later, let Alfred give him another earful about terrible ideas, but for now Barry is getting restless, apparently noticing the unfamiliar surroundings as he slowly wakes up, and the whimpers he’s letting out are getting closer and closer to tears.

“It’s alright, Barry,” Bruce assures him softly, adjusts him carefully on his hip as he enters the manor and hears Alfred close the door behind them. 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says. “I took the liberty of drawing a bath in the master bathroom for our guest. I figured it may help him settle. Some more appropriate clothing has been laid out for him as well - you’ll find it on your bed.”

Bruce glances back, bouncing Barry absentmindedly, “You managed to get something shipped already?”

“No, sir. The items were purchased for Master Dick. I contacted him and he assured me that he doesn’t mind them being used. I believe he stated that he is glad that they’re getting _ some _ use.”

It’s a conscious effort for Bruce to not let his expression turn grim, because Barry is looking at him now, gaze innocent and curious. Bruce knew, of course, that him taking care of Barry would not go down swimmingly with his children, not after everything he’s done to them, hasn’t done _ with _ them, but he didn’t expect anyone - particularly not Dick - to find out so soon, not even a day into whatever this will turn out to be.

_ Old wounds_, he tells himself, but they feel fresher than ever now.

“Tell him thank you,” Bruce offers stiffly. “I’ll take Barry upstairs.”

“Of course, sir.”

Barry hooks his chin over Bruce’s shoulder to watch Alfred as he’s carried off upstairs, and he even offers a little wave just before they’re through the doorway, out of sight. It’s so sweet, so distinctly Barry in an entirely new way, that Bruce can - for just a moment - let his anxiety run in the background of his mind, move past the pressing worry that he is entirely unprepared for this. The wrong person for the job.

“Did you hear what Alfred said?” he asks gently, then glances down to see that Barry’s already staring up at him. He must’ve noticed Bruce’s tension, but Bruce won’t give in to the clear question in those big blue eyes. “Would you like me to give you a bath?”

There is a moment of hesitation as Barry seems to carefully process the words, or perhaps debate with this entire situation again, before he sinks into himself and nods hesitantly.

“Baff,” he mumbles softly, sleepily, in the absent sort of way that toddlers tend to. “Ba...bah.”

“Bath,” Bruce repeats, prompting the boy to properly echo the sound, but Barry’s already lost interest. He’s staring at the paintings on the walls and the plants and ornaments decorating the hallways as they pass them, his gaze darting back and forth just a little bit too quickly.

Though Bruce has no idea what regression is like in general, he wonders how it changes with the addition of powers. Can Barry still consciously access the Speed Force like this - would it be possible for him to do so accidentally and end up hurting himself? Perhaps his powers are locked away entirely in his mind, just like the majority of his vocabulary and motor skills?

At some point, when Barry is out of headspace, Bruce will have to ask, have to find out what safety measures he’ll be putting in place during Barry’s stay - because, truly, there is no way to tell when Hal will return. 

Bruce’s mind almost turns again to the apparent reality, that Hal abandoned Barry for what may well be several months, has already been over two weeks, but he once again forces his mind to move on. It’s something he can concern himself with later, but, for now, the large clawfoot tub in the master bath beside Bruce’s bedroom has been drawn with a bath clearly for a child. The water is shallow, filled with bubbles and tinted pink by some sweet-smelling soap or another, and is also residence to a black rubber duck that Tim had gifted to Bruce, spurred on by the snickering of his siblings, years ago. Barry perks up at the sight of it, reaches out a hand in a clear ‘give me’ motion and wriggles to be put down. Bruce rubs his back soothingly before setting him down carefully on the closed lid of the toilet, and Barry - despite wanting to be released - clings to him until Bruce pulls back and stands.

“Let’s get you undressed,” Bruce says, instead of thinking about the feelings that just awoke within him when Barry’s hand curled into the front of his shirt.

“Bath,” Barry says, almost sternly, and Bruce hesitates for what is barely a split second before giving into the instinct to ruffle his soft blond hair.

“Yes,” he says, “Then you can have your bath.”

It’s easier to get Barry out of the loose t-shirt and joggers than it was to get him out of his suit, though Bruce ends up holding the majority of his weight while doing so since there’s nowhere in the bathroom to lay Barry down. Luckily, Barry doesn’t seem to mind. He’s fidgety but ultimately agreeable, still weighed down by a certain level of sleepiness from his nap, and, after assuring Bruce that he doesn’t need to potty - no wonder, since he probably hasn’t eaten or drank in God knows how long - Bruce lifts the boy into the warm bath water.

The reaction is instantaneous. Bruce doubts he’s ever seen such joy as when Barry settles in the waist-deep water, his legs tucked close on either side of himself, and he immediately starts splashing his hands against the bubbles and babbling excitedly. He looks precious, and Bruce considers - as he leans forwards to place a hand between Barry’s shoulder blades, supporting him and keeping him stable - that Barry’s age range may well be around only one or two.

It’s rare for Littles to be so young - the majority settle at between four and eight, with a year or so’s leeway on either side. Bruce had initially assumed that some of Barry’s mannerisms could well be the result of distress, tiredness, or neglect, and they still might be, but it seems far more likely that Barry truly is just considerably littler when he manages to settle sincerely in headspace.

It seems fitting, somehow. About as fitting as Barry being a Little in general had been. He looks sweet like this, pink-cheeked from the warmth of the bath and smiling brightly as he pushes the rubber duck through the mountains of bubbles. He picks it up once it’s gone through a particularly big pile and now has a hat, and he holds it eagerly up to Bruce.

“Duckie,” he says, and Bruce feels his lips curl up. He leans forward and blows gently, making the hat of bubbles float back down to land on the water, and Barry lets out a painfully sweet peal of giggles before amusing himself with the task of putting the hat back on and then blowing it off, losing more and more bubbles each time. Bruce watches him for just a minute longer, running his thumb over the notches of Barry’s spine where his hand is resting, before he takes the opportunity to pick up a soft bath mit with the other hand and start bathing Barry properly.

For the first few minutes, Barry seems bothered by the interruption to his playtime, and tries fruitlessly to wriggle away. Bruce stops a few times, checks that he’s not uncomfortable with being touched and doesn’t still hurt anywhere, and he continues at each mumbled assurance of, “‘m’okay.”

The bruising has completely healed by now, and Barry would look like any other Little boy if he wasn’t quite so skinny, having clearly burnt through his body’s deeply scarce reserves of fat - probably on the very first day he didn’t eat quite enough. 

Bruce makes a mental note to work on developing a special infant formula for Barry as he fills a cup up with water and tips it slowly over the boy’s head, smiling softly at the somewhat indignant noise of protest he gets in return. Barry turns around to glare at him through a mop of dripping wet hair hanging in front of his eyes, and Bruce schools his expression into something neutral, as if challenging Barry’s willingness to protest, much the same as he does when the man gets bold in League meetings.

Thankfully, he gets nothing more than a pout through the next two cups of water tipped over Barry, and even that quickly fades as soon as he’s massaging shampoo into the boy’s scalp. Barry looks just about asleep again by the time Bruce is carefully rinsing conditioner out of his hair, his eyelids drooping as he sucks on his first two fingers, and Bruce hesitates on the idea of rousing him. Another nap will probably do him good, especially if he clearly needs it, and he must do after so many years of forcing himself not to want them, not to want any of this, but a whimper is suddenly interrupting Bruce’s thoughts.

He looks down, concerned, and Barry suddenly looks decidedly pale, his entire demeanour flipped like a coin. He whimpers again, doubling over slightly as his eyes fill with tears and the muscles of his abdomen tense, and Bruce immediately understands - hunger pains. Barry has to have been having them for days.

Without further preamble, Bruce pulls the plug from the bath with one hand and uses the other to help himself to his feet. He picks up a large bath sheet and easily lifts Barry to be wrapped in it, but Barry’s already crying by that point, hurt little sobs which he muffles against Bruce’s neck as soon as he’s able to.

“It’s alright,” Bruce murmurs gently, rubbing the boy’s back as he carries him through to the bedroom. “We’ll get you dressed, and then we’ll get you fed. You’re just hungry, that’s it, hm? You’ll feel better after a bottle.”

He’s hardly even aware of the cooing. It’s unfamiliar - as unfamiliar as _ all _ of this is, because it had always felt so unnatural before - but it manages to quell Barry’s sobbing to weak hiccups as Bruce sets him down on the edge of the bed. He gets Barry quickly dried off, and manages to get his hair down from dripping to damp, and then gently lays him back across the towel as Bruce goes to collect the pile of neatly-folded clothing and supplies from on top of the dresser. There’s both a pull-up and a diaper on top of the pile, and Bruce mentally sends a deeply grateful ‘_thank you_’ to Alfred - and then another to Dick as a somewhat tense afterthought.

He wonders briefly what his eldest son’s setup is like in his home, if he takes care of himself properly - if he has a Caregiver - but he forces his thoughts back to the here and now.

Barry is still teary-eyed. He looks anxious, embarrassed, and Bruce realises rather late that he’s never been diapered before. 

Bruce doesn’t have any real comfort item to offer, nothing that Barry knows, nothing that he has an attachment to, but he looks back to the bundle of clothing and picks up the pacifier box from amongst it. The pacifier inside has never been used, Bruce knows, but Alfred must’ve boiled it. It’s pale blue in colour, patterned with a cartoon sun with a big smile on its face, and there’s a dull ache in Bruce’s chest as he offers it, watches Barry latch onto it in exactly the same way an infant would and start suckling immediately. 

Bruce allows himself just a moment, watches how Barry’s pupils dilate as a long-buried instinct is satisfied, a new need is met, and then he sets about meeting another. The whimpering starts up again when he lifts Barry’s legs to slide the diaper beneath him, but it’s soothed easier this time with some gentle murmuring as he works, adding powder and spreading it in easy rhythm. He glances up as he’s taping the sides, looking at Barry’s face, and he’s only slightly taken aback when he sees Barry gazing up at him, eyes still wet around the edges but filled with a deeply vulnerable sort of trust.

“Good boy,” Bruce manages to get out, and Barry’s face scrunches into a smile so sweet it deepens the ache in Bruce’s chest to a cavity. Some deeply, deeply buried part of him wants to scoop Barry up, cradle the boy to his chest and kiss his hair and make him smile like that forever, but it’s so foreign, so distant, that it’s easier to reject than any other urge. 

Bruce is a babysitter, after all. Not a Daddy.

But, when he’s got the diaper secured and Barry dressed up in the t-shirt-and-shorts pyjama set that’s just slightly too small for him, patterned with smiling elephants and lions, he scoops the boy up with one arm and holds him just a little closer than he had earlier. 

“Now,” he says, picking the towel up with his spare hand, “Let’s go downstairs and get you something to eat, hm?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bottle and then bedtime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! lots of things got in the way and are still getting in the way (side-eyes my other fics awaiting updates), but i love this fic and apparently you guys do too! thank you again to everyone who's reading and leaving comments, i reread them constantly when i need motivation or a pick-me-up, and the response to this fic still makes me intensely happy.
> 
> now, please enjoy!

Barry is quiet as Bruce walks the same path back downstairs, glancing at the boy every so often to see if any recognition of the same hallways, same paintings, lights up in his gaze, just to see if Barry is old enough to retain information like that quickly. Unfortunately, Barry doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to his surroundings this time, and is instead chewing rather brutally on his pacifier and tugging at the expensive, pale blue fabric of Bruce’s dress shirt, staring in interest at the wrinkles his hands leave behind. 

Yes - definitely a baby. A younger toddler at most. Far younger than any child Bruce has had, younger than any Little he’s ever interacted with, but there’s no use getting daunted now. Particularly not when Bruce knows that younger Littles are assigned that way by their own brains because they _ need _ it. Younger regression ages are commonly seen in people with traumatic childhoods, or generally less-than-comfortable lives. If someone classified as a Little starts a high-stress job, their regression age may well drop, just the same as it may waver or - in rare occasions - disappear completely if they outgrow their need for it. Classifications have fluidity, have range, and things change depending on what people have or what people need. 

“Hurts,” Barry mumbles suddenly, hoarsely, and he sounds distinctly - on some level - like he thinks it’s a confession he’ll be punished for.

Barry needs a lot.

“It’s alright,” Bruce murmurs, rubbing his back soothingly as they reach the foot of the stairs and Barry writhes with what must be another cramp, hiccuping with a promptly-following wave of tears. “Hush, it’s okay. We’ll get you a bottle, hm? Nothing too heavy just yet, but it’ll make your stomach stop hurting, and then you can get some more sleep.”

Despite Bruce’s accommodating tone, Barry sobs like he’s been told something torturous. “‘M’no’_ tired_.”

Bruce has no doubt that Barry probably doesn’t _ feel _ tired - it’s hard to, when one is overwhelmed by hunger pains - but he knows the boy will conk out as soon as he’s being fed a bottle. This fresh bout of acting out is certainly indication that he needs some rest and coddling, and something that ticks both boxes will probably go down quite well.

“I know,” Bruce says calmly. “I know you’re not. But a bottle will be nice, hm? Doesn’t Hal do anything like that for you?”

Whatever response he’s expecting, it certainly isn’t for Barry to suddenly go rather tensely silent. Bruce glances down at him, and is surprised to see a glint of clarity in those tear-filled blue eyes.

“Hey, hey, none of that,” he says, perhaps with a small degree of urgency. He bounces Barry gently, hoping to prevent him from forcing himself out of headspace and surely causing no small degree of damage when he’s already in such a state. They’re just outside of the doors to the kitchen now, but Bruce stops and adjusts Barry in his arms so he’s being cradled properly, even as he addresses Barry in a calm, measured tone that he’d use for an adult. 

“It’s alright. I know it must be scary - being little with someone new for the first time, especially when your regression age is so young and you seem to be...uncomfortable with it.”

Barry recoils, his eyes growing wet again even as they only seem to grow clearer as his regular headspace returns to him, enough for him to pull the pacifier from his mouth.

“I don’t know the situation,” Bruce continues gently, coaxingly. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head. I don’t know what might’ve happened with Hal. But it’s alright, Barry. You’re safe, and you need it, so just...let yourself float a while longer. You don’t have to be Big now. We can discuss everything of importance tomorrow, after you’re fed and rested, alright?”

“...promise?”

The hoarsely-spoken word, practically whispered after a pressing few seconds of silence, almost catches Bruce off-guard.

“Promise what?” he asks softly, looking down at Barry and firmly not looking away as the younger man finally dares to make eye contact.

“P—promise me it’s okay. That…’m’safe. Tha—that I can...I can do this.”

Bruce nods - once, shallowly, evenly - even as he feels something heavy grip his heart. “You’re safe here, Barry,” he says, voice deep and careful, and just that simple sentiment is enough to make a tremor run through Barry. “Everything is okay. You’re safe. You can be Little - I’ll take care of you. Nobody will react negatively. And then, when you feel ready - and _ only _ when you feel ready - we can talk about this whole situation. Alright?”

The silence that follows feels even more pressing than any previous bout. Bruce is sure that it hasn’t worked, that the assuring words have fallen as flat on his tongue as they usually do, coming out shallow and utterly insincere. He steels himself for having to let Barry go, put him down, get himself out of the feeling that has slowly been overtaking him ever since he clocked that Barry had regressed.

Relief washes over him like warm water when, instead, Barry buries his face against Bruce’s neck and clings to his back like he’s afraid of ever having to let go.

“It’s alright,” Bruce says again, so softly that even he can barely hear it, and squeezes Barry gently as he finally pushes the door to the kitchen open and carries the boy inside. It’s late, the time he’d usually be eating a brief meal before heading down to the Cave, but patrol will have to be pushed back tonight, if not abandoned entirely in favour of contacting one or two of his children to prowl the city in his stead. 

He would have to give a reason, though. And imagining Dick’s voice tight with hurt blossoming into anger, on the phone with Alfred earlier, pales in comparison to imagining Jason’s posture tight with fury, the aggression of betrayal spilling out in violence upon him discovering Bruce giving his coveted paternal affection out so freely to someone outside of the family. Jealousy and protectiveness and hurt, all complicated emotions that Bruce never taught him how to _ feel_, coming out like a firework or maybe just a pipe bomb.

No. No, not tonight. It’ll happen someday, maybe someday soon, but it can’t be now - not when Bruce is feeling so much. Not when Barry is here, still fragile enough that bearing witness to even the ripples of such tension would likely drag him away from headspace in a way that would not be easily reversible. 

It’s a small blessing that Bruce happens to have no one living at the manor currently, though living arrangements are fluid. Anyone could show up at any point, expecting a regularly awkward dinner with their father or a stable place to stay for a while, and it would be easy for Bruce to let that anxiety take hold of him, let him fret and plan some sort of contingency. But vague plans of how he would hide toys and pacifiers away rapidly upon company arriving are half-formed in his head when he recognises that they would be just as damaging to Barry as telling him outright that his headspace is causing problems, and will cause bigger ones in the future. It isn’t fair, and it would hurt the boy.

It hurts _ Bruce _ just to imagine finally providing Barry with these apparently consistently denied comforts, only to quickly and frequently tear them away and teach him all over again that they are shameful.

“Master Bruce. Is everything alright?”

Bruce very nearly jumps at the sound of Alfred’s voice right behind him. His shoulders tense and he holds Barry tighter to his chest on instinct as he spins around, earning a whiny hiccup in response. Barry’s eyes are tear-filled again and he’s visibly restless, and Bruce feels guilty for how long he must’ve spent silently thinking.

“I’m alright,” he quickly assures Alfred, shaking his head as if to clear it as he bounces and shushes Barry. “I...I was going to make Barry a bottle. I don’t think he’s eaten in—” he glances down at the boy, wondering for a moment if he’s imagining the sunkenness to his cheeks, “God knows how long. I don’t want to make him sick, but he needs something.”

It’s a relief to have the task handed over to someone far more well-equipped. Bruce isn’t sure if Alfred has dealt with Littles with any degree of frequency, but he is entirely calm as he nods and proceeds to pull an unopened tin of a light formula down from one of the many large cupboards in the kitchen space. 

It does help, of course, that Wayne Manor is often stocked with just about everything, just for the sake of convenience, though Bruce reminds himself that he has some shopping to do soon.

Would it be best to do it in person? That way, Barry would be able to test things out and choose what he likes, but the risk of either of them being seen - let alone together - is too great. The tabloids would have a field day if they believed Bruce Wayne had taken a Little, even if the ‘rumour’ is indeed true - albeit temporarily. It would be inconvenient for Bruce, sure, but his public persona has seen worse rumours - he is far more worried about Barry being forced into an unpleasant spotlight, letting himself sink into headspace and then surfacing to find out he’s been branded Bruce Wayne’s Little and is no longer even a human being in the media’s eyes.

God. Why does everything have to be a chain of complications? 

Bruce sighs softly, approaching the table on the far side of the large kitchen, added purely for the convenience of his children who always much prefer to sit in the noisier, less stifling space, as opposed to the traditional dining room, particularly during after-patrol binges or midnight snacks while chattering away to Alfred.

Barry also seems to be taking an interest in the butler, watching him quietly over Bruce’s shoulder as he sits down carefully in one of the wooden chairs, adjusting the boy to sit cross-cradle in his lap. 

“Do you want to talk to Alfred?” Bruce asks softly, tilting his head to try and catch Barry’s eye. Barry immediately tenses up, seemingly embarrassed at being ‘caught’, and promptly hides his face against Bruce’s shoulder as if expecting Alfred to suddenly grow a set of shark teeth and come chomping at him. Bruce raises an eyebrow and feels his lips quirk, seeing Barry’s natural instinct to make friends and be unashamed in his openness suddenly at war with the shyness of a young toddler, and Alfred seems equally amused as he screws the top onto a light blue baby bottle.

“Not much of a conversationalist yet, it seems,” he comments lightly, and Bruce recognises the conscious efforts in his posture to appear as open and non-threatening as possible, loosening his shoulders and spine and tilting his head just the same as Bruce had done. Barry peeks out at him for just a moment, one blue eye visible through a mess of soft blond hair, but his interest in Alfred is quickly overtaken by his interest in the bottle and he tosses his pacifier haphazardly onto the table in favour of reaching out with both hands.

“Ah!”

It’s an urgent sort of noise, distinct baby babble, and Bruce watches Alfred smile at the sight of it. He holds out the bottle in a clear offering, but doesn’t let Barry take it just yet. “Now, now, little one. Can you say ‘please’?”

It’s half a genuine question. Barry makes a few more noises, seemingly ignoring the question entirely, before he goes back and furrows his pale brows as he understands the words. The bottle will still be given to him if he isn’t capable of clear speech, of course, but Bruce feels warmth flood his chest when the boy stammers for a moment before finally getting out a sweet “p’ease!”

Alfred smiles at Barry and finally allows him to take the bottle with fast, clumsy hands. It’s a miracle that he manages to keep ahold of it, but perhaps it’s sheer desperation motivating him, because a split second later he’s latched onto the nipple and gulping the formula down as fast as he can. Bruce only allows him a moment of that before he’s pulling the bottle away and earning himself yet another whine, this one very sincerely hurt. Barry looks as if he’s convinced he’s being punished, eyes wide and confused and a few drops of milk dripping messily down his chin.

“It’s alright,” Bruce soothes quickly. “It’s not being taken away. You can have more in a second.”

He glances up and Alfred’s already got a cloth to carefully wipe Barry’s mouth and then move away, but Barry struggles to sit up and cling to his waistcoat, as if begging for Alfred to be on his side here. Bruce understands his reasoning, of course - Alfred had been the one to make the formula and hand it over, while Bruce had taken it away, so Barry sees Alfred as someone safer for the moment. 

“P’ease,” Barry hiccups, sounding as if he’s begging. “P’ease, puh.._ p’eas._”

“It’s _ alright_,” Bruce says again, tugging the boy back by the waist and pressing a brief kiss to his hair to try and soothe him. “It’s okay. I’ve got your food. It’s still yours. I just didn’t want you to make yourself sick. It’s alright. I’m sorry.”

Unfortunately, Barry is not easily placated. Bruce can feel tears against his neck, is forced to hold onto the boy tighter as he kicks and writhes unhappily, but he manages to somehow reach around and pick up the bottle again, and Barry falls still and silent as soon as the nipple is back in his mouth. Bruce is careful feeding him, keeping the bottle almost level so Barry can only get small mouthfuls relatively slowly, but Barry doesn’t seem to notice or mind. His whining melts into soft noises that Bruce quickly recognises as contentedness, deep in the back of his throat, and Bruce feels everything he’d felt when Barry had clung to him in the bathroom twice as viciously now as Barry curls into him, gripping the front of his crumpled shirt as his eyelids quickly begin to droop.

Alfred is silent, surely clearing up, but Bruce can’t tear even a bit of his attention away from the sight in front of him. 

He has always held a great deal of respect for Barry, always admired him - looked up to him, in a way. Barry, who felt the same thing that Bruce felt as a child, saw something of the same horror, and yet turned it into a personality full of love, a passion and devotion to chasing a work path in forensics to help people who suffered the same as them. Another traumatising accident, a situation that would’ve paralysed almost anybody else with fear of themselves, and Barry had built a superhero, someone who could help the people that Barry Allen couldn’t.

He and Bruce are opposites in some respects and exactly the same in others, the perfect recipe for close friends but always kept at a careful distance thanks to circumstances and Bruce’s own blood circle he keeps broad around himself. 

He shouldn’t have this. He shouldn’t be the person in this world to be holding Barry Allen, Little and inches from sleep and so vulnerable, so in need of affection that Bruce tells himself he cannot give. Even as he quickly replaces the nipple of the empty baby bottle in Barry’s mouth with his pacifier, smoothly enough that Barry doesn’t even stir, and then lifts him up to be carried upstairs, assured by Alfred that the city with be patrolled tonight by Steph and Tim.

Although plenty of simpler things had been purchased upon Dick’s Classification years ago, a nursery had never been put in place. Making one would’ve been too personal, too _ wrong _ at a time when Dick wanted so desperately to go and Bruce truly believed he wanted him to _ be _ gone, so Bruce is left with several options. He could put Barry in any number of rooms, many of them more suited to the eye and needs of a child, but Bruce - once again in his life - feels like a new father.

He tucks Barry into his own large bed in the master bedroom, curled up with his pacifier bobbing in his mouth, and lays back on the sofa across the room with his laptop balanced against his thighs, a blanket from the linen closet thrown over him, and a clear line of sight to the baby. He gets a few updates from patrol during the course of the night, assurances that nothing big is going on and one selfie of Steph with Tim posing ridiculously in the background, and he feels a guilt-filled sense of relief with each hour that crawls on with no word from Dick.

Part of him wonders. He thinks about the rest of the kids too, and about Barry’s friends and family, if they’ve been asking after him, calling his turned-off phone that was left in the entryway, worrying until they’re panicking.

Perhaps Bruce should be panicking too. There are certainly enough reasons to, but, somehow, he’s closing his laptop lid and turning over, letting sleep take him - long before dawn starts crawling in its dim, hazy light over Gotham - lulled by soft mumbling and the rhythmic suckling of a pacifier telling him that his charge is safe and sound.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the morning, Bruce and Barry finally get a chance to talk. Just a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! college is a waking nightmare  
this fic, at least, serves as some soothing self-indulgence, even though this chapter doesn't involve all too much littleness. remember when i implied that this fic wouldn't have much of a plot? ha.  
i mean, i guess it still doesn't have all too much, but there is far less meaningless fluff than intended - i'll have to remedy that in future chapters, and some sweet comments have given me some lovely ideas! (you're all pretty darn great for that. i love you. gimme more.)
> 
> for now, please enjoy!

When Bruce wakes up, sprawled on his back with an arm hanging off of the sofa, he realises immediately that the bed across the room is unoccupied. The sheets are a mess, crumpled and tangled in a way that can only be created by the way children sleep, but Barry is nowhere to be seen. 

Concern starts clawing at Bruce’s gut in the same moment he starts blinking. He sits up quickly, dragging a hand down his face in an effort to quickly shed the hold of grogginess, and the new angle allows him to see the abandoned pacifier in the middle of the bed. 

Abandoned, or forgotten?

“Barry?” he calls out, voice rough with sleep. There’s little point - in the huge expanse of the mansion, Barry could’ve just ventured to the kitchen and already be far too far away to hear Bruce, particularly down too many stairs and through five doors, but it’s something like an instinct. Really, Bruce curses himself for not being sure to awaken first - he should’ve known that Barry would wake up in a more tentative mood or headspace, especially in a completely unfamiliar environment, and just that simple lack of foresight could well have ruined the day, or maybe ruined everything, if Barry has already ran back to Central. Bruce tries to hold out hope, though - they’d made rapid progress yesterday, and even through the several ups and downs, Barry had only trusted him more and more as the day progressed. Bruce hadn’t harmed him. He’d _ taken care of _the boy. 

He, for the first time in his life, had really been a Caregiver. A diapering, cooing, bottle-feeding Caregiver. 

It’s almost too strange to think about, like some sort of too-long dream had at the end of a long string of stressful, sleepless nights, but Bruce knows - despite the pull of his wants - that he cannot brush it off. Barry is somewhere, and Barry is dependent on him right now.

So, step one: find Barry. Whatever headspace or mood he’s in. 

Well, perhaps that’s step two. Step one is changing out of the crumpled shirt and slacks he’d fallen asleep in, brushing his teeth and generally cleaning up a bit, which he tries to do as quickly as possible, despite knowing perfectly well that a couple minutes, at most, make the difference between whether Barry is on the other side of the country or the other side of the world. Rushing just helps him feel more in-control, more able to act, though his actions in rushing into the bathroom and rapidly running his toothbrush over his teeth slow to a standstill when he notices a distinct smell in the master bedroom ensuite.

He places the toothbrush down on the vanity, spits his toothpaste and absently wipes his face, and then approaches the bin tucked neatly into the corner of the room. A foot placed on the pedal confirms his thoughts - there, torn and crumpled as if removed with no knowledge at all of how to do so, is Barry’s wet diaper. 

“Shit,” he whispers, though the diaper itself isn’t an indication of anything bad. It would probably be worse if Barry were still wearing it, since it’s probably been wet since Bruce fed him last night, but the fact that there is no way Barry could’ve cleaned himself up properly without any means of doing so is still concerning. He couldn’t have put on a new diaper, either, not without a pack there available to him or any instruction or prior knowledge on _ how _ to, so he’s gone. He must’ve pushed himself out of or slipped out of headspace, and he’s already long back in Central, probably ready to never talk to Bruce again and especially never talk about any of this, not to the other League members or to his family or friends. Nobody who could help him.

Bruce makes his way through the rest of his usual, rather lengthy, morning routine with no rush at all. There’s a bitterness settling within him, a sort of loneliness and knowledge of failure, and he thinks again of Dick as he descends the stairs, readying himself to meet Alfred’s eyes and see that look. That parental sort of ‘I told you so’ that still manages to be sympathetic.

What Bruce is not at all prepared to see, however, is Barry - fully dressed in borrowed clothes, _ adult _ clothes - sat at the same kitchen table he’d been cradled at last night, smiling as he chats easily with Alfred and eats a large cooked breakfast.

Part of him wants to stop in the doorway, to sort out whatever it is that he’s feeling and appraise this whole situation - why would Barry stay? - but he cannot stop himself from entering right away, calling out Barry’s name much the same as he had right when he’d woken up. Barry startles slightly, his forkful of sausage pausing halfway to his mouth, and any easygoing demeanour disappears as he meets Bruce’s eyes.

“Uh,” he says, looking distinctly like a deer in headlights. He tries for a smile. “Good morning.”

Unsure he could get out anything else, Bruce echoes the sentiment. A part of him wants to scoop Barry up, wants to tell him that he shouldn’t disappear like that while Bruce is sleeping, that he should ask for help if he’s trying to get out of headspace but struggling, that he shouldn’t be out of headspace at all, not so shortly after plummeting like that, not when he so clearly _ needs _ it. But they’re both adults now, looking at each other - or trying to - like they do at League meetings. And it isn’t Bruce’s place.

“So,” he says instead, glancing over at Alfred and hoping for some indication of how to approach this. “Have I missed breakfast?”

He hasn’t, of course - based solely on that Alfred is more than willing to cook again, though Bruce goes for something lighter than Barry’s Full English. They eat quietly - because, of course, Barry eats again, bottomless calorie consumer and half-starved neglected Little that he is - but it isn’t an overly awkward affair. It’s about as awkward as the usual breakfast date with a colleague, at least until they find a rhythm, talking about crime and science and statistics in what would probably be both a dull and deeply morbid mixture for anyone else. They get along well, and it’s easy for Bruce to forget everything in the moments between each reminder, but the reminders come. Come in the form of Barry struggling to pick up his knife and fork properly each time he sets them down, picking them up just for a moment the way a small child would and then quickly readjusting his grip. Come in the form of Barry chewing on his nails, fiddling with his fingers and - a few times - sucking on his knife and fork in a way that would usually be enough to make Alfred have a conniption.

As it is, however, he doesn’t comment. At least until Barry insists on clearing up and doing the washing up, and Alfred gives him the unprecedented luxury of letting him.

Calm as anything, he walks out into the dining room next door under the guise of dusting, but the cloth is abandoned as soon as Bruce is closing the door behind him.

“Our guest attempted to return to Central City,” Alfred explains, unprompted. “Dreadfully early. He was in a state, half-asleep and looking more tired than when you brought him here. I stopped him, of course, told him that I could easily wake you and you’d take care of anything he needed, but he was insistent that he was capable of going back home and taking care of whatever.” He gives Bruce a meaningful look. “He told me he was a big boy, in a voice that very clearly denoted otherwise.”

Bruce blinks for a moment, then drags his hand down his face. “He wanted out. Of course.”

It’s easy to imagine Barry waking up at the crack of dawn, restless and wet, and - instead of giving himself over and allowing himself to cry out like a regular toddler, a regular Little, would - grabbing on to the vaguest dreg of his usual headspace and forcing himself through the crack like a boulder through a straw. 

“I managed to convince him to stay, through some small miracle. Told him it would be impolite to disappear, and unwise to run on an empty stomach. That did catch his attention. He agreed to stay for breakfast. Started to calm down and stabilise when I allowed him to eat like an adult.”

“Should’ve known yesterday almost went too smoothly.”

There’s another layer of bitterness in Bruce’s voice as he sits down at the large table, steepling his fingers as he tries to think. Again, he has minutes at best, assuming Barry isn’t quite confident enough in his stability to use his powers to wash the expensive tableware, but Bruce doesn’t know what he’s meant to do or say. How is he meant to get Barry to stay, get Barry to talk? To explain what happened with Hal, what happened in his life to make him struggle like this with headspace, what happened to make him vulnerable enough - desperate enough - to lay eyes on Bruce and deem him a safe person to imprint on.

What Bruce can understand, at least, is why Barry tries so hard to be big. He is relied on heavily, expected to be quick-thinking and level-headed, the first on the scene, the perfect hero to get everything done and get it done _ fast _.

Letting go of all of that cannot be easy, let alone to then slip into a headspace where Barry is helpless, entirely dependant on someone else. And, from Barry’s own perspective, _ useless_.

Bruce has got his head in his hands by the time he hears the door open, soft footsteps announcing Barry’s arrival, and he senses it as Alfred slips silently and respectfully from the room. Barry, of course, picks up on the vibes, and he is tense and concerned when Bruce finally raises his head.

“Barry,” he begins, hoping somehow that the words will come to him as he goes, but Barry - of course - is faster.

“I’m sorry.” The words are spoken as a singular sound, and Bruce thinks he sees a glint of lightning in Barry’s blue eyes before his lips start moving almost faster than Bruce’s eyes can comprehend. “Yesterday and the mission before that, everything, I’m sorry and it’s so weird and I know I shouldn’t have let it affect me but I lost control of everything and during the fight I got hit hard and I fell and it _ hurt _ and there was blood and I was so tired and I got scared and I just couldn’t hold it back anymore and I just _ ran _ and everything went _ wrong _ and now I’m here and I’ve forced you into all of this and I’m so _ sorry_, Bruce, I swear, it’ll never happen again and if I could think of any way to repay you for this I would but my head is such a mess right now and I’m just so—“

It’s the blessing of predictability, even at superspeed, which allows Bruce to interject.

“Please don’t tell me you’re sorry again.”

The words come to a screeching halt, but Barry’s mouth goes on for a second longer, causing him to babble for just a moment. Bruce feels his heart throb, remembering sweet, infantile mannerisms from yesterday.

“Listen, Barry. Are you listening?” There is silence for a second, and Barry is still, but finally he nods with a jerky little motion just outside of superspeed. Bruce looks at him with eyes far softer than he’d ever admit to, and tries not to consider his own vulnerability. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Barry. Nobody got hurt during that mission except you - the assailant was subdued by others within a half hour. Almost no collateral damage, either.”

Noticeably, Barry’s shoulders relax somewhat at that confirmation, and Bruce knows that he must’ve been torturing himself all this time with the idea that people got hurt because of his failure.

“I came to your apartment later because I was concerned about you. Although, I admit, I wouldn’t have done so if Jordan had been available. I think I’m right in assuming he would be your first choice, too.”

Something like a wince passes over Barry’s face. Again, Bruce thinks to _ ask _, but he isn’t sure that’s a can of worms he should be opening, not when Barry’s like this.

“What I’m trying to express, Barry, is that I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to. It wasn’t an obligation. It was something..._ new_, yes, but it was also something...something good, I think.”

The silence that follows is perhaps the most pressing of Bruce’s life. Barry looks so uncomfortable, one arm hugging himself while he gnaws on the thumb of his other hand, and it’s clear to see that he could easily slip into headspace. If this was a normal circumstance, if Bruce were a normal Caregiver, he would coax him, help him drop, and give him everything he needs until he can relax properly.

As it is, however, he can only let the silence drag until finally Barry speaks.

“The stuff,” he says. “The pacifier and th—the...diaper, and everything else. Who’s...who’s is it?”

For a moment, Bruce thinks to say, ‘Yours’. 

“The items were purchased for my eldest son. Dick,” he explains instead, voice even. “You’ve met him.”

Barry nods slowly, surely recalling the face of a boy much younger than Dick is now, and then he opens his mouth. A few long seconds pass and he closes it again. He looks guilty, somehow, and yes, it does still sting, still ache like a bruise, but Bruce answers the question that Barry couldn’t bring himself to so rudely ask.

“He was Classified at eighteen,” he says, and his voice is quieter now, even as he tries to keep it neutral, strong, disconnected. “Insisted upon by school staff and his doctor, because...well. It was obvious. I’d known for years, on some level. I just ignored it. Hoped it would go away.”

The wince that jars Barry’s shoulders deepens the hurt in Bruce’s chest.

“It wouldn’t, of course. I was cruel and foolish to ever delude myself into thinking it would. But I was bitter, hurt, callous still - I couldn’t bear the thought of what him being...being Little would involve. I’d spent so many years hardening him, taking away every bit of vulnerability, that the thought of him being helpless made me panic.”

_ Panic_. Panic he had, trying to force Dick back from the field, taking away his agency, his responsibilities, yelling words he cannot remember even as he remembers the furious tears in his son’s eyes clear as day. He’d tried to clip the Robin’s wings, in some desperate attempt at keeping him safe, and all it had earned him was the Robin flying away.

“He left,” he says, and finally gives in to the pained softness of his voice. “I lost him. We’d been fighting for months, growing apart, but that was the breaking point. He said he couldn’t bear being treated like this.”

And Bruce had understood, not quite for the first time, that he wasn’t meant for this. 

Taking care of an actual child had been enough of a challenge - an adoptive son old enough to largely take care of himself - but then learning that child is a Little, considering for a moment taking care of him so much more intimately, being truly depended on, having someone show him that level of vulnerability, and that had been his breaking point. He couldn’t handle it, couldn’t bear it, and he’d lost his son. And then he’d lost _ another_, because Jason was so complicated in an entirely different way and Bruce had never truly found his footing again after Dick - had he ever had it at all? - and Bruce has to close his eyes for a moment and breathe, as calmly and as deeply as he can, because for a moment he feels so much regret, feels so lonely, misses his children so _ desperately_, that he fears he may fall apart. 

He isn’t sure how much time passes. Perhaps just a moment. But it’s a blessing that he doesn’t startle when he feels Barry’s warm hand touch his shoulder. He smells faintly of the expensive washing up liquid Alfred uses, of bergamot and jasmine and Bruce’s bed sheets, not at all the sweetness or slight chaos of youth, but his hand is too gentle, too timid, and Bruce can feel the way it trembles. He shouldn’t have spoken so openly, shouldn’t have given this all to Barry when he can’t handle the weight of it, but vulnerability has often been the theme between them, through these last couple days more than ever, and Bruce can at least now offer something in return. 

He opens his eyes slowly and catches just a single glimpse of Barry’s blue eyes, wet and anxious and full of the guilt of a child grown up too fast faced with a problem they cannot somehow solve, and from there wrapping his arms coaxingly around the boy truly is an instinct. Barry is tense for a moment, shaking, but finally he melts and so does Bruce, just a bit, as he feels warm breath against his neck and toddler-shy arms wind around his waist.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, finding more comfort in it than if the words were spoken to him. Barry clings to him - exhausted, hurting, helpless. “Everything’s going to be alright.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce gets Barry changed again. Hal finally enters the picture, though perhaps not with the answers Bruce had hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, loves! sorry for the wait. i am, as the kids say, depressed - i haven't been doing an awful lot of writing, and i've been liking even less of the writing i have been doing, but my safety net planning with writing one chapter ahead means that this chapter exists as i continue to string together the next one. i was reluctant to give up the safety net chapter, but some deeply sweet comments from someone in particular reminded me that people actually are reading this and truly do enjoy it, which serves as very good motivation - so...here ya go!
> 
> please enjoy! i love you! <3

It already feels almost familiar, to carry Barry through the hallways. He’s the same light weight he’d been before, balanced on Bruce’s hip, though the rough materials of the borrowed slacks and shirt feel obviously out-of-place beneath Bruce’s hands. They’d _ looked _ out of place, right from the first moment Bruce had laid eyes on the boy, and he considers that Barry never actually left headspace. He just forced himself to tread water at the surface of it to keep up appearances for as long as he could, being a big boy, and it’s already seemingly had an effect. Barry looks worn down again, his gaze exhausted and far away, and he’s clinging to Bruce like he doesn’t know what else to do.

It’s almost a counterpart to the trust he’d exhibited when Bruce had found him after his drop, but it feels heavier now, surely made that way by the fact that Barry hasn’t _ dropped_. He’s sinking into headspace like a Little normally would, albeit nowhere near as smoothly, and he’s looking like he thinks he might drown.

Ultimately, it makes getting him changed into some more appropriate attire considerably more difficult than it had been when he was sleepy and freshly-bathed last night. There’s no changing table to strap him onto nor toy to offer him to distract him, so Bruce can only lay him back on the crumpled sheets of his bed and murmur soothing words as he unbuttons the ill-fitting shirt, feeling an ache in his heart as a panicked, shame-filled sort of clarity keeps making Barry writhe in discomfort, face flushed bright. 

“I--I can...I can do it myself,” he finally tries to insist, looking almost close to tears, and Bruce immediately knows he won’t let him but backs off nonetheless, giving the poor boy some space to inhale so shakily it’s almost a hiccup. He makes a tragic picture, looking so clearly Little even in his grown-up clothes, and it’s all Bruce can do not to scoop him up. He knows it probably wouldn’t make it better.

“I know,” he says instead, in a placating sort of tone he’s familiar with using. The tone he’d use when his children were young and fiercely independent, not wanting the help of Bruce or the Bat but needing it anyway. “I know you can do it by yourself. But you don’t have to, see? I’m here. I want to help. Will you let me?”

It’s a bright sort of pride that lights up within Bruce when he sees Barry start to consider it, the flush of shame on his cheeks lightening to something closer to shyness. He fidgets, already visibly littler, and Bruce continues.

“Just let me help with this, alright? And then you can decide what you want to do afterwards. You don’t even have to do it with me. You can stay with Alfred, if you like.”

A better offer than explaining that Barry isn’t allowed to be unsupervised - and it works. Finally, Barry nods, chewing rather brutally on his bottom lip, and Bruce thanks the gods of convenience when he can lean across the bed and pick up the pacifier abandoned earlier that morning. It isn’t dirty, of course, just has a few little bits of fluff from being dropped on the sheets and left when it was surely still wet, but it feels as natural as anything for Bruce to clean and wet it in his own mouth before holding it out for Barry to latch onto. 

He does so immediately, and then relaxes back into the bedsheets like a switch has been flipped. Bruce feels an affectionate smile tug at his lips, and from there it’s much easier to get Barry out of his clothes, though the button-down requires enough manoeuvring to earn a frustrated whine. It’s easily placated with some soothing cooing, and then - perfectly on time - Bruce’s reliance on Alfred’s near psychic powers when it comes to the care of the house and its occupants is rewarded by the butler entering with another bundle of items. Bruce turns calmly and greets him, accepts the bundle with a nod of thanks, but he doesn’t miss the way Barry flushes bright red again and does his absolute best to hide his state of undress, his hands desperately attempting to somehow cover the full expanse of his borrowed briefs. It’s a grown-up sort of shame, but when displayed so childishly it’s shockingly endearing, enough so that Bruce has to quite consciously resist the urge to coo some more. 

Instead, mindful of Alfred’s presence, he sets the bundle of gathered items down on the bed and begins to sort through them, not quite relaxing until he hears the door click shut and knows they’re alone again. Only then does he offer Barry a soft almost-smile, patting the boy’s tense tummy half-covered by his pulled-up knees to try and tell him to relax too.

“Shy, aren’t you?” he comments lightly, then considers the irony in him attempting to tell Barry that he needn’t be, after he felt exactly as ashamed when observed by someone else. “It’s alright,” he says instead, picking up a diaper. “I suppose I am, too.”

This time, instead of a singular diaper, Alfred brought the opened pack, meaning that Bruce will know where they are for changes. The rest of the supplies are still nearby from last night too, so Bruce makes quick work of getting Barry out of his underwear and tucking a diaper beneath him in its stead. 

It’s still clearly an unfamiliar routine for Barry - which can only be expected, since it’s only the second time he’s been diapered - but Bruce is quick and efficient, shushing Barry gently each time a whimper crawls its way up his throat. He’s pink-cheeked and fidgeting by the time the tapes are all neatly in place, but all it takes is a moment of Bruce just looking at him gently to calm him down completely.

“Cold,” he finally mumbles behind his paci, fidgeting again, and Bruce can feel the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

“Let’s get you dressed, then.”

A onesie or romper would probably be best, considering Barry’s apparent regression age, but Bruce isn’t sure if they have any - if they’d even fit. Barry has a fairly narrow, lean build - the body of a runner, naturally - but he’s hardly got the physique that Dick did at the age of eighteen. Dick is probably smaller, even now, so perhaps it’s a necessity to stick to the things that’ll fit - the pyjama sets and colourful t-shirts and elastic-waist trousers.

For today, Alfred has picked out a short-sleeved baby blue t-shirt patterned with clouds, which Bruce tugs down over Barry’s head easily. The soft grey joggers take some extra wiggling, especially over the considerably thick diaper, but they still result in far less fuss than the grown-up clothes did, and Bruce considers for a moment that he’s done. But, he then considers Barry’s complaints of being cold - unreasonable, considering he runs hotter than any regular human, but endearing in that timid toddler sort of way - and picks up the bright blue socks that Alfred had put with the pile. Barry squeaks in surprise and wriggles when Bruce pulls them onto his feet, cheeks colouring with the natural giggly reaction to being tickled, and the sight makes Bruce’s heart ache so keenly that he can’t resist but to scoop Barry up as soon as he’s done, cradling the smiling boy close to his chest.

“Is that better?” he asks softly, instinctively smoothing a hand over Barry’s unruly, fluffy hair. “Not cold?”

He gets a sincere shake of the head in response, and - just to add to the undeniable _ something _ gripping his heart - a mumbled, “‘Ank’oo.”

“Good boy,” he says softly, warmly, then adjusts Barry on his hip. “Now, what would you like to do?”

Barry looks up at him curiously, like the question is unfounded, and Bruce entertains for a moment that he’s too little to really be given choices. It feels wrong to just decide for the boy, however, especially when Bruce doesn’t really know him - when he isn’t _ Bruce _’s - so he elaborates. 

“You can choose what you’d like to do today. Within reason, of course. You could watch some television, or go and see the gardens, or spend some time in the library—”

Bruce trails off with the remembrance that Barry is a _ child_. Not like the Robins, not so abstract and disillusioned - and much younger, in fact. Is he even old enough in headspace to retain his memory of how to read?

He can’t think of anything else to offer, though. The Manor, despite the beliefs of the tabloids and youngsters who take notice of his several adoptions - official and otherwise - is not a haven for youngsters. There’s enough for children to occupy themselves with, a pool table and ping-pong table and a widely-stocked library and more gaming systems than Bruce could ever hope to care about or remember the many names of, but nothing fit for anyone younger.

Well. Nothing _ available_. 

Bruce knows that there are toys, tucked away in storage right beside everything else Alfred has been fetching out for Barry, but offering those feels wrong. Like an overstep. And Bruce could consider _ why _ it feels like that, why it feels any different to lending - _ giving away _ \- all the rest of his eldest son’s unused possessions, but he doesn’t want to. His thoughts about Dick, his memories, are already aching like an old bruise that’s been pressed on too much, and it’s only serving as a reminder of what he already knows.

“Alright,” he says, in a gentle, placating tone that indicates the decision is being made for Barry, not Bruce himself. “How about you stay downstairs with Alfred for the morning, hm? You can sit and watch TV, or he can show you around the manor. I’ve got a bit of work I need to do, but I’ll come and see you before lunchtime, and we can eat together. How does that sound?”

There is a somewhat tense look to Barry’s face. He still seems far too still, far too _ quiet _, for a real Little, let alone one as young as himself. Each glimpse of genuine peace in his face seems to be far between, and they only come when Bruce’s attention is fixed solely on the boy. 

Like he thinks he’s being a nuisance otherwise.

It has the benefit now, however, of making him agreeable, and he nods mutely at Bruce’s suggestion even as his hands curl to clutch fistfuls of Bruce’s pressed shirt. Perhaps he should comment on it, say something soothing, but Bruce doesn’t even know what’s wrong and doesn’t think he has the right, ability, nor willingness to try and ask. Instead, he just rubs Barry’s back gently as he carries him silently downstairs.

He ends up depositing the boy in the main living room after finding Alfred and requesting he keep an eye on Barry. The television is turned on promptly - a bright educational cartoon for toddlers - and, though the boy’s eyes get noticeably watery and his voice very wobbly when it becomes truly apparent that Bruce really will be leaving him, he doesn’t kick up a fuss. Perhaps it’s selfish for Bruce to relish it, but Barry being too uncomfortable in his headspace to rely on the relief of tantrums will serve him well for the time being, especially as he somewhat awkwardly bids yet another firm but patient goodbye to the miserable-looking Little and then shuts the door behind him. It isn’t enough that he can’t hear the unmistakable crack of Barry beginning to cry, but he steels himself and walks away, making his way straight down to the Cave which has lay untouched for far too long now.

He has systems in place, of course, for him to be notified of anything truly pressing even when he’s in public as Bruce Wayne, and the fact that none have come, even in the form of Alfred telling him about something, is a relief. However, there is still the matter of non-pressing matters which may still be important, and his concern on that front is proven to exist for good reason when the screens of the computer - once awoken - display what can only be described as a barrage of notifications. Attempted communications, from off-planet. 

From Hal.

Bruce curses softly, noticing that the majority of the notifications are from hours ago, and he is forced to entertain the thought that Jordan’s chance at communication has come and gone. Bruce is unsure what exactly his mission had been, but it’s nothing to scoff at if it’s kept him away from Earth for so long, and the idea that he may have already been swept back up in it is unpleasant - Bruce needs answers, and he would like them now.

Aware that it may well be fruitless, but all too eager to try, Bruce opens the League communications feed that Hal had attempted to use to contact him. He’s prepared for a long wait - perhaps hours, if not days, of keeping an eye on it, but instead he hears the unmistakable crackle of the feed being opened on the other side almost instantaneously.

He’s expecting a wise-crack. Some comment about how, for a guy so tech-obsessed, he sure is terrible at answering his phone. 

Instead, he is met with a tone so serious, undercut by something so frantic, that he finds himself almost taken aback.

“Where is Barry?”

Bruce can’t even think to respond. He’s heard the tone before, on a lesser level. Hal and Barry are close. Hal is protective. Any information of Barry getting hurt while the Lantern is elsewhere easily results in that tone, either over the comms or echoing through the hallways of the Watchtower as Hal trails Bruce, pestering him endlessly that he _ needs _ to be let into the medbay to stay with Barry, but Bruce has never heard it quite like this. 

Hal sounds exhausted. Desperate. Somehow resigned to something awful even as he sounds poised to fight tooth and nail against it.

“_Batman_.” The snapped title - brutal insubordination - pulls Bruce from his thoughts. “Where is he? Where the hell is he?”

“He’s with me.”

Perhaps it’s a wonder that Bruce’s voice - the Batman’s voice - comes out so effortlessly, even after days spent speaking softly and cooing, but perhaps he owes that to being posed the simplest of all possible questions. The ones to follow, however —

“What happened? Is he okay? What’s going on?”

— those are more complicated.

Bruce sighs thinly, trying to organise the chaos of his thoughts, the chaos of the _ situation _ , into something that can be explained. Truly, the baseline of it is simple - Barry is a Little, he dropped badly due to neglect, he’s now under Bruce’s care with every bit of deep-set damage steadily swimming to the miserable surface - but the current story almost doesn’t seem to matter. Bruce isn’t even sure Hal deserves it, suddenly reminded with a harsh jolt of fierce protectiveness of Barry when he’d first dropped, confused and terrified and _ hurt_, asking for Hal - Hal, who had left him, with no alternative Caregiver. Who hadn’t _ told _ anyone, had directly endangered Barry’s safety by keeping the secret of his headspace for this long, allowing him to push himself the way he clearly has been. Bruce thinks of Barry’s apartment, thinks about the mess which must’ve accumulated over months - thinks of the lack of toys, the lack of pacifiers, the lack of any objects to adhere to the needs of a Little, the fact that Barry doesn’t seem to know what being taken care of feels like.

“This isn’t the time for the damned silent treatment, Bruce! _ Is. Barry. Okay _?”

He almost severs the comm line.

Fury is a burning weight low in his chest, a new and unfamiliar type born of having a charge so young, so vulnerable, to protect, but Bruce swallows the great flame of it and allows only embers to spark from his tongue.

“No. Your Little is not okay.”

The ensuing silence is satisfying and infuriatingly _ not _ so in almost equal measure. He likes the idea that he’s caught Hal out, caught him off-guard, made him feel - if only for a moment - panicked and exposed, fearful despite the harrowing distance of cold space separating them, but he wants a response. He wants to _ know _ \- the truth, the reality, the details of what this situation is, why Barry has been hurt like this.

What he receives isn’t any of that.

“My...my _ what_?”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!  
please leave a comment if you enjoyed, and please let me know if you have any ideas or requests for specific things you'd like to see! <3


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